EQMM, June 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "I swear to God,” said one. “Nobody knew. Nobody. Out of town, got to be."

  She believed that. What she couldn't believe was the other possibility, the one that reverberated from Florin's whispered threat. But it couldn't be. She couldn't face the idea that three men were dead for what? For a visit to the City of Radiant Brides? She could not, she would not accept that. Not now. Not ever, she thought.

  Besides, Florin was overseas, long gone, with his phone out of service. Louise knew; she had tried his number weeks before in a moment of weakness. She didn't dare try again, nor his e-mail, either—just in case the cops wanted to look into the computer.

  And they might, because the homicide detectives said that robbery did not appear to be the motive for the “execution style” murders. They mentioned “gangland elements,” and though they waited a decent interval, they wanted to know what Louise knew about that.

  "Look, I'm the hostess. I hand out menus and take you to your table. Angelo was an honest man. Some of his old friends were, well, you know them. But he was an honest guy, loyal but honest.” It seemed to Louise important to stick with that line. She cried a lot, too. Never more than when they finally mentioned Florin.

  "I was stupid,” she said. “But it was nothing. I wasn't ever going to leave Angelo. Florin's gone, anyway. I'm glad he's gone."

  The detectives talked to her often. At first she thought they were suspicious of her and then she thought they were sympathetic, but they never had any real information. Three people had been gunned down and no one knew the reason and no one knew who'd done it.

  "A contract killing, we think,” they finally told her. And looked at her with their cool and interested eyes and waited for her to give them some clue.

  She shook her head in despair. She had asked everyone, all the guys from the old neighborhood, all the relatives, all their friends. There was nothing. Angelo had offended no one. She knew herself that the restaurant was clear of debt. It had to be Florin, and yet it couldn't be. She couldn't let it be, though she could hear him in her ear whispering, You'll regret this, Princesa.

  She should tell the detectives; it was the very thing they were waiting for, but Florin was out of their reach and to tell them would be to accept that this monstrous crime was in some way her fault. Louise shook her head. She knew nothing, guessed nothing, speculated about nothing, tried, as much as she could, to think about nothing.

  And then, over a year later, Florin reappeared. Just as he had the first time, out of the blue, so to speak, but a real blue sky this time, a hot summer day. Louise was at the restaurant, not La Primavera, which had been closed and leveled, but at the new restaurant, Memoria, half a block away.

  "Princesa,” he said when he saw her. “As lovely as ever.” He kissed her hand.

  Louise wondered whether to believe him, then decided she did. Black had definitely turned out to be her color. She handed him a menu and took him to a single table near the back.

  "I heard of your tragedy,” he said. “So sad. I am so sad for you."

  "You're back,” was all she could say.

  "For you, Princesa."

  There was something in his eyes, something Louise could not decipher.

  "My life is very different now,” she said and moved away.

  He returned anyway. Memoria's food was excellent, the restaurant was “bellisimo,” she herself remained la Princesa, and the City of Radiant Brides was still accessible. “You work too hard,” he said. “You need a vacation."

  "I can't leave the restaurant,” she said, though she was tempted, though she had worked without stop since Angelo's death, though some days she expected to find her feet had dropped off with weariness.

  "A weekend,” he said. “You could do a weekend in Florida.” He had a condo in Miami, on the water, a very nice place, fit for the Princesa.

  Louise felt her head start to ache as it always did when she really had to think about Florin. There was the handsome, silver-haired bon vivant, brimming with operatic charm, with his sighs and compliments and continental phrases, her key to the Radiant City, and yet after he had threatened her, Angelo and his cousin and Freddy, the kitchen helper, had died.

  No proof, of course, no proof at all. After she made a discreet call to the homicide detectives, they questioned Florin—he told her about that himself, full of regret and indignation. “Of course, they soon understood that there was nothing. It was bizarre. I was in the Old Country at the time. My heart broke for you, you know that, Princesa?"

  He turned his chocolate eyes on her, soulful and melting, but watchful, too. She thought watchful and warned herself to be careful. “I did not hear from you,” she said.

  "I did not know, Princesa. I was away, traveling here and there on business. How would I know about so terrible a thing?"

  How indeed? she thought. He took her hand again and said that she had to believe him. She had to.

  "I should hate to think otherwise,” said Louise. She told herself that the police had found nothing; that there was no evidence; that Florin with his uncertain temper and potent charm had been across the Atlantic and at the back end of the Mediterranean. Just the same, seeing Florin again made her feel subtly queasy, for if he was guilty, she would have to act, but if he really was innocent, couldn't she make a new start? Was life to be without glamour and pleasure forever?

  "I'm not the same person,” she added, for it was fair to tell him that, to warn him, in a sense.

  "Lovelier than ever,” Florin said, in his most gallant mood, and eventually, Louise agreed to a trip to Florida, which, she thought, might settle her mind one way or the other.

  They flew out on a Saturday night, first-class seats, and he gave her a pretty necklace in a Tiffany box on the way. Louise caught a glimpse of her reflection and saw a dark, handsome woman in a black suit, a woman who looked glamorous, who looked set to be radiant, who was about to put various doubts and suspicions behind her.

  Florin was perfect, charming and passionate and sympathetic. He bought her a white sundress, because “black is so hot in Florida,” and a black-and-white hat and a white cover-up for the beach. The apartment was luxurious, with the canal below, aqua, and the strip of the bay beyond, brilliantly blue. Perfect.

  "We could stay here, Princesa. We could stay here and be happy.” This was on Monday night, when Memoria was closed. Louise had to return in time for the dinner crush on Tuesday.

  She pointed this out.

  "I'll take care of you,” Florin said. “You don't need the restaurant. You know I'd do anything for you. Anything."

  That one word carried a chill. Louise had no intention of giving up the restaurant and trusting herself entirely to Florin. Not now. At the same time, sitting with him on the balcony high above the canal and the palms, high above the pale and distant line of the surf, she felt it unwise to say this outright. “I've worked hard on Memoria,” she said.

  He shrugged.

  She talked about her struggles with financing—"If I had only known, Princesa"—and the many difficulties with the insurance company and builders. “A lot of work,” she concluded.

  "Hard work will age you,” he said slyly. “And you know,” he added after a moment, “restaurants are delicate things."

  Louise looked at him. His face was shadowed, only his silver hair caught the lights reflected from the canal and the neighboring apartments. She sensed a dangerous moment.

  "They have a lifespan. Tastes change, Princesa. And even before that—a drunken chef, a grease fire, one bad fish—it doesn't take much."

  "Or murder,” Louise wanted to say, but she bit her tongue. She understood that she was being subtly threatened. “Whereas without the restaurant . . . “

  "Without the restaurant, Princesa, we enjoy this splendid view, South Beach, Coconut Grove. We travel, we see the world."

  "Maybe visit the Old Country?"

  "Maybe that is not so much fun,” Florin said. “The Old Country has many troubles."

  "Do
you escape troubles here?"

  "What do you think?"

  "I think we should have some wine,” Louise said. “I think we should toast our escape from troubles."

  He laughed and started to get up.

  "No, no, let me. You'll see what a fine sommelier I make.” She had learned a lot about wine since opening Memoria.

  Florin lit one of his long, thin cigars while Louise opened the wine and poured two glasses. She glanced out at the terrace, then slipped her hand inside her purse and took out a very small bottle, courtesy of one of Angelo's old friends. She added a couple of drops to one glass, slipped the bottle back into her purse, and carried out the tray.

  "To you,” she said, when they were both seated.

  "Princesa."

  "Do you like the wine?"

  "A bit sweet but very smooth."

  "An after-dinner wine. A moscato."

  "Very nice,” he said. They watched the night bring up the lights of the city like endless trays of fine jewelry. “It will be best to put Memoria up for sale. I can find someone for you to take over the management this week."

  "I doubt we'll find anyone capable that fast. I will have to go back for the transition in any case."

  Florin didn't like that, but Louise pointed out the importance of reputation and good will. “I'm not just selling the building in this case."

  "Very true,” he said.

  Louise got up and poured him some more wine, and they discussed getting rid of Memoria, into which she had poured her heart's blood. It took a long time and Louise kept his glass topped up until the bottle was empty.

  "Now that everything is settled, I feel we should celebrate,” she said. “I feel like dancing.” She tried a few steps on the balcony. “We could go to that Club Nikki. I've heard it's very nice."

  Florin stood up, quick and smooth as always, and Louise felt her heart sink. She had been deceived twice and now . . .

  He suddenly put his hand on the balcony “Maybe an early night, instead,” he said. “It is my heart, Princesa. Too much happiness.” He touched his heart and Louise noticed that he swayed just a trifle.

  She moved their chairs to the back of the balcony and flicked on the stereo with the remote. Speakers hidden behind the two big potted palms brought up a soft but insistent beat and a wailing, insinuating guitar riff. She held out her arms and swung her hips and Florin followed. He was a good dancer but tonight he was just a half-beat out of sync. Louise began to feel more confident.

  "Sometimes I think about La Primavera,” she said.

  "Naturally,” Florin said.

  "I got there before anyone else."

  "A tragedy, Princesa." His eyes were half closed. “But in today's world . . . “

  "It was not a robbery. The police are very certain it was not a robbery."

  "Your husband had certain friends,” Florin began delicately. His voice was curiously without any emotional tone and his eyes were half closed.

  "Small-time crooks,” Louise said. “They were small-time and fond of Angelo. Honorable men."

  "Yet I had the sense he was afraid."

  They had circled the large balcony and over Florin's shoulder Louise could see the shiny blackness of the canal far below. Her heart was in her ears and her surging blood whispered, decide, decide, until she thought that her head would burst. “He was afraid of you,” she said.

  "Of me, Princesa? A good customer?"

  "A man with contacts. In the Old Country—and elsewhere."

  He shrugged. “People talk nonsense."

  "Do they?"

  They were at the corner of the balcony and Florin was swaying slightly. Were he to hit the floor, Louise knew she could not lift him over the rail. Decide, decide, ran between her ears so insistently she was surprised that he couldn't hear her thought.

  "Of course."

  "And yet you threatened me, you told me I'd be sorry. And I was, Florin. I was, I am sorry yet. I am."

  "What is a restaurant? What is a man like Angelo? Princesa," he said, and he swung his arm to indicate the apartment, the sea, the glitter and darkness that was the very image of the seductive Radiant City. Louise took one step back and pushed him.

  For a horrible instant Florin seemed balanced against the rail, and then slowly, so slowly it seemed to Louise, he tumbled over with a scream.

  "Ricorda!" she shouted after him in her bad Italian, “Ricorda i morti.” He might be Old Country with contacts, but her people had been Sicilian for generations, and she could wear black with the best of them.

  A thud below, then silence. Louise caught her breath and stepped inside. She collected the little bottle, which she would drop down the trash chute, and her cell phone, with which she would call the police. Louise put her black scarf around her head, straightened her back, and said goodbye to the City of Radiant Brides forever.

  Copyright © 2010 Janice law

  * * * *

  I guess it's not much consolation ... but I thought your impersonation of the king was a riot.

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  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Reviews: THE JURY BOX by Jon L. Breen

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  The court jester, or fool, is an intriguing figure in the annals of medieval Europe, able to speak truth to power in ways that others could not and by tradition both wittier and smarter than anyone else. Is it such a stretch to imagine fools organizing themselves to spy, exchange information, and promote political stability? Such is the theme of one of the most entertaining historical mystery series.

  **** Alan Gordon: The Parisian Prodigal, Minotaur, $25.99. My historical consultant has been recommending the Fools’ Guild series for years, and I finally listened. In 1205, a man calling himself Baudoin appears out of nowhere proclaiming himself the full brother of Count Raimon IV, the ruler of Toulouse. Theophilos, the count's Chief Fool, and his wife and fellow fool Claudia investigate the murder of a prostitute, for which Baudoin has been charged. The story is primarily carried by brilliant dialogue, very modern in sound and idiom (ostensibly Gordon's contemporary translation from the Tuscan) but otherwise true to the period. The fairly-clued solution comes in a Thin Man-style gathering of the suspects.

  *** Jeffery Deaver, et al.: Watchlist, Vanguard, $25.95. Members of the International Thriller Writers collaborate on two novellas, each of them begun and ended by Deaver and marked by his trademark narrative misdirections. Also contributing to both are David Hewson, David Corbett, John Gilstrap, Joseph Finder, Jim Fusilli, Lisa Scottoline, P. J. Parrish, and Lee Child; contributing to one of the two are such well-known names as Linda Barnes, Gayle Lynds, and S.J. Rozan. “The Chopin Manuscript,” which began life as an award-winning audio book narrated by Alfred Molina, concerns a terrorist threat and builds to a Hitchcockian climax. It should especially ap- peal to those well-versed in both math and music. “The Copper Bracelet” also puts the fate of the world in the balance in cinematic blowin'-up-stuff manner. Of the many group mystery novels over the past 75 years or so, these surely rank in the upper half.

  *** Joyce Carol Oates: Little Bird of Heaven, Ecco, $25.99. In the Great Lakes city of Sparta, New York, an estranged husband and a married lover are the two prime focuses of police and media interest in the 1983 murder of part-time band singer Zoe Kruller.

  Krista Diehl, pre-teen daughter of one suspect, tells the first part of the story, while the second focuses on Aaron Kruller, troubled teenage son of the victim. Both are haunted by the crime and by their memories of each other until they meet again as adults in 2002. As a deftly written study of human relationships in contemporary American society, with a special understanding of adolescent mind-sets, this is a typically impressive Oates novel. But unlike its immediate predecessor, My Sister, My Love, it is not notable viewed strictly as a whodunit: The question is answered, but the revelation proves something of a letdown.

  *** Ed Gorman: Ticket to Ride, Pegasus, $25. In 1965, counterculture and protest have reached Black River Falls
, Iowa, where a retired colonel whose son died in Vietnam becomes a murder victim shortly after disrupting an anti-war rally. Lawyer Sam McCain reluctantly agrees to represent the accused, a scam artist with other ideas. Among the sideshows, a local clergyman is determined to des-troy Beatles records in the most dramatic way possible. No one does the time period and the small-city ambience quite like Gorman, combining broadly comic characters and situations with deadly serious musings on war and human relationships. Though this is presented as the last in a distinguished eight-book series, fans will be glad the novel's resolution does not preclude a McCain comeback.

  *** Mickey Spillane and Max Allan Collins: The Big Bang, Penzler/ Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, $25. In New York of the 1960s, Mike Hammer confronts the counterculture and battles the drug trade. The tough private eye is sent on an unusual journey late in the going. This one is vastly better than the first posthumous Hammer, The Goliath Bone (reviewed here in March/April 2009), probably because Spillane's part was written when he was closer to his prime and collaborator Collins was left with more to do. There's a clever concept at the center of the plot, a fine finishing twist, and plentiful humorous examples of the older writer's influence on his younger acolyte, a far superior writer.

  *** Loren D. Estleman: The Book of Murdock, Forge, $23.99. In 1884, Deputy U.S. Marshal Page Murdock, every bit as much a detective as the author's private eye Amos Walker, is dispatched to a small Texas town where he will pose as a preacher in an effort to get the goods on a bandit gang. The Western genre encompasses some of this prolific author's best writing. The humorous early pages, in which Murdock gets and prepares for his assignment, are the highlight of the book.

  *** Stuart M. Kaminsky: A Whisper to the Living, Forge, $23.99. Long-standing Moscow cop Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov and his Special Investigations team deal with a prolific serial killer who operates in a city park, a heavyweight boxer accused of killing his wife and her lover, and a female British journalist investigating a prostitution ring. The enormously talented and versatile Kaminsky died in 2009. If this, as seems likely, proves the last of the Rostnikov series, it's a suitable send-off.